Bob Sampson: Cameras are integral part when coming upon wildlife

Whether at home or traveling a dirt road in the north country, there’s almost always a camera within arm’s length. As a result of this longtime habit, there occasionally is a reward in the form of a quality photo of rare, wary, shy species of birds and mammals, or simply a gorgeous sunset.

I’ve spent a great deal of time in our woodlands and on our waters. These pursuits often have been part of long drives through some of the wildest country in the eastern third of our nation. At home, there is a bird feeder near the office window.

Whether at home or traveling a dirt road in the north country, there’s almost always a camera within arm’s length. As a result of this longtime habit, there occasionally is a reward in the form of a quality photo of rare, wary, shy species of birds and mammals, or simply a gorgeous sunset.

The operative word in the previous paragraph is “almost.” Murphy’s Law hangs on me like the force of gravity around a planet.

I can count on missing a potentially great photograph whenever the batteries are dead, or the camera case has been covered or moved out of reach.

For example: During the only time in 20 years I didn’t have the camera in my lap during the 22-mile drive out of Baker Lake, a remote spot in northern Maine, a black bear slowly walked across a logging road, stopped and posed for the camera — that naturally was under a pile of fishing rods in the back of the van.

Or, the day the camera was left on the kitchen counter prior to a pike fishing trip to Mansfield Hollow. It was perfect fishing conditions during a spent hurricane. However, the rain squalls intermittently were very intense, so I decided not to retrieve the camera in order to spare it a serious, possibly fatal drenching.

Naturally, that was the day I caught my largest northern pike, a 43.25-inch, 21-pound dragon that was released in great shape after its measurements were taken (at least there was a witness to the catch).

Last Friday morning, the camera was “off duty” on the charger at home, and once again it was a mistake that potentially cost one of the rarest photo opportunities ever!

Over a lifetime afield, on two occasions I’ve heard the banshee-like cry of a bobcat, and three or four other times seen their tracks in fresh snow or soft mud. But, I’ve never had the thrill of seeing one, even at a distance, until that morning.

My first encounter was an audible one, about 30 years ago while heading back to the Jeep after a long, unsuccessful day of deer hunting on a 380-acre piece of private property in North Stonington.

It was a cold, calm day so sounds carried, making stalking and still hunting nearly impossible on dry leaves. At dusk, banshee-like screams suddenly came echoing from the direction of an access point to state forest land that bordered the private property we hunted.

Page 2 of 3 - Those sounds, which I’d never heard before, were like a scene from a horror movie, when the beautiful maiden meets the monster, face to face.

I’d been hunting on 380 acres of private land all day with a “3006” slung over my shoulder, so a mugger or rapist wouldn’t pose much of a threat, and cell phones were at least a decade into the future.

I decided to investigate, just in case someone was in dire straits.

As I began heading in that direction, on a course straight through the woods, it didn’t take long to realize that whatever was making those horrific sounds was moving through some dense brush at a pace much straighter and faster than any human could maintain.

Realizing that it was an animal of some sort that was on state forest property, and I was carrying a weapon that’s not legal on state lands, I double timed back to the Jeep, loaded up quickly and drove past that wide place in the road just to see if there was any sort of vehicle parked in the spot.

It was empty with no fresh tire marks or other sign of human presence in the area. Needless to say, I was relieved but curious as to what had made those screams.

It most likely was a bobcat, but there weren’t many of them in the state at that time.

My longtime hunting buddy, Pete Minta, who has had experience with these felines during his years in the woods, agreed, and we were right.

While hunting for ruffed grouse on the same property shortly after the first snow that year, we came across a set of bobcat tracks. As further verification, the person who rented a small house on the property told us he’d seen a bobcat walk through the yard during the previous fall.

Three or four winters ago, my daughter had a bobcat that she saw on two separate occasions in her Salem backyard.

However, until last Friday, all my encounters have been tracks in the snow, banshee screams and second-hand stories.

I was driving along a back road in Salem, when a mid-sized animal darted across the road a hundred yards or so ahead. At that distance, it looked like a small, short-tailed dog, such as a Scotch Terrier, that was roaming and stuck between the heaps of snow along the road.

I slowed the car as its crossing point was approached, expecting to see a dog, and hoping it could be coaxed into the car and off the narrow and dangerous road. Hopefully, it would have a tag on its collar, with the address or phone number of its owner.

Fifteen or 20 feet into a frozen swamp, there was some movement and a bobcat, with what appeared to be a bird, possibly a duck, in its mouth, moved quickly along some open water, stopped and stared at me for a full two minutes before turning and trotting into the brush with its meal.

Page 3 of 3 - There was plenty of time to grab my camera, which is in the car at least 90 percent of the time, but not for this fortunate and random encounter.

Friends frequently ask: “Why is that camera always in the car?” The answer for years has been: “In case I see Bigfoot!” — or maybe another bobcat, or a bear, a deer or one of the many hawks that perch along our roadways.

Since 1972, Bob Sampson Jr. has written an outdoors column for The Bulletin. It appears every other Thursday. Reach him at sports@norwichbulletin.com